


that's what i like (about you)

by thimble



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Pizza Delivery Boy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: The guy takes his sweet time answering the door, but when he does, Aomine's half-hearted service training becomes the only barricade between the 'oh, fuck' his mind supplies and the unfortunate urge to say it aloud.Because standing in front of him is who might be the most beautiful guy Aomine's ever seen, wet and clad only in a towel.i.e. Five Times Himuro Answers the Door Half-Naked, and One Time He Doesn't.





	that's what i like (about you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sannlykke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/gifts).



The pizza flavor should've tipped him off.  
  
Now, Aomine's been the unfortunate witness to all sorts of weird shit since he started a few months back. Most of them were of the R18 variety, and all of them were pretty traumatizing, as if the universe was hazing delivery boys. Either way, his resume needed the buffing, his ego refused to take a beating, and his porn habit wasn't gonna pay for itself.  
  
Point is, nothing this side of Kanto should be capable of surprising him anymore. Tonight's order — breakfast Hawaiian, with extra pineapple — is just eccentric enough to raise an eyebrow, but has enough familiar ingredients to lower his guard.  
  
That's how they get you.  
  
The guy takes his sweet time answering the door, and Aomine, like an idiot, lacked the foresight to wish he took even longer. Impatience has Aomine swearing under his breath when it happens, and his half-hearted service training becomes the only barricade between the 'oh, fuck' his mind supplies and the unfortunate urge to say it aloud.  
  
Because standing in front of him is who might be the most beautiful guy Aomine's ever seen, wet and half-naked, clad only in a towel.  
  
"Sorry, I was in the shower," says the vision — says Himuro Tatsuya, according to the receipt — as drops of water drip from his hair to his chest, then cascade further down...  
  
Aomine wrangles his gaze back up before it could follow a certain droplet's trajectory. "Whatever," he says, with his characteristic defensiveness, his immediate horror matching Himuro's seeming amusement. "Uh, I meant, that'd be two thousand five hundred yen."  
  
Himuro doesn't say anything as they exchange cash and pizza, though he's wearing a smirk too shameless for someone in the state he's in. Aomine hates him on the spot.  
  
"Keep the change," says Himuro, short of laughing right in Aomine's face as he disappears behind the door.  
  
Aomine fumes all the way to his motorcycle, which is understandable given the situation. His hard-on, constricted in his jeans? Not so much.

 

* * *

 

There's a lot of things to bemoan about being one of the only delivery boys the joint has. There's the rush at mealtimes, and the rush, period, of having to get halfway across the city in under half an hour, and having to do it over again depending on how many people are calling. Repeat customers don't usually fall under this category — having memorized their routes means Aomine gets there faster, which means everyone's happier — until he's handed an address he recognizes, and not in a positive way.  
  
He's still bristling from the memory of his previous boner when Himuro opens the door, and the aforementioned boner threatens to make a comeback upon seeing him, bare chest, skimpy boxers and all.  
  
"I know you," says Himuro, effortlessly slanted against the doorframe as he gives Aomine an obvious once-over, as if to affirm what he just said. "How'd you like the the tip?"  
  
"The wh—" Oh, right. The five hundred yen Aomine got to keep for himself. "You're not from around here, are you?"  
  
Himuro's visible eye — his dry hair is artfully styled to hide the other one — widens a little, as if thrown off by Aomine's perception. Well, excuse him. "How could you tell?"  
  
"No one else does that."  
  
"So you didn't like it?"  
  
"I didn't—" Aomine's never been adept at concealing his emotions, and his annoyance manifests in the affronted huff that escapes his lips. "Here's your order."  
  
Once again, Himuro is quiet as they make the transaction, but he speaks as he checks the contents of the box.  
  
"You were right, by the way. I'm from the US. Arrived for the summer semester." He lowers the box lid, peeking up at Aomine from under his lashes. "Wish I could tip you, but you'd just call me weird, —?"  
  
It takes a moment to realize Himuro's asking for his name. "Uh, Aomine Daiki."  
  
"Fantastic. Thank you very much," says Himuro, in perfect English, and as if that isn't infuriating enough, "—Aomine-kun."  
  
Him shutting the door with a cant of his hips, and by proxy, with his ass, is the last thing Aomine sees before his thoughts turn X-rated.  
  
Bastard must be doing it on purpose.

 

* * *

 

Much like the other times, Himuro makes him wait for an unreasonably long minute before he attends to the door. And exactly like the other times, he doesn't have a shirt on, though he's more covered up than before in skintight jeans.  
  
"No way you were in the shower," says Aomine, eyes narrowed in suspicion, doing his damn best to survey Himuro's lack of wetness and nothing else.  
  
"I wasn't. I just got home an hour ago, but I forgot to grab food. Hence you," says Himuro with that everpresent smirk. "Problem?"  
  
"Yeah!" exclaims Aomine, though he realizes belatedly that he can't accuse a customer of lounging around shirtless in his own home.  
  
The smirk grows. Aomine clears his throat.  
  
"Never mind."  
  
He must've imagined the deliberate brush of Himuro's thumb across his wrist as bills are passed between them. What he doesn't have to imagine are Himuro's abs, tight and defined, the line of them like an arrow pointing to his waistband...  
  
"He's definitely doing it on purpose," Aomine tells the other delivery boy the day after, simmering with fury and arousal both. He almost yells at Kagami for tuning him out, but Kagami, to his credit, rolls his eyes, which is as good an indication as any that he partly listened to the rant.  
  
"What are you gonna do about it, Ahomine?"  
  
"Ha?" He must've heard wrong; even Kagami can't be that stupid. "What do you mean? I can't— he's a customer— are you trying to get me fired?"  
  
"And deal with weekends alone? Tch. Besides, you're not on the clock everyday."  
  
"So you're saying..."  
  
Kagami acts like a good boy most of the time, but right now his grin is suggestive. "Give the guy what he's been asking for, yeah?"  
  
Aomine's ensuing laugh is wolfish, delighted. "Always knew you had it in you, Bakagami."

 

* * *

 

Aomine would be the last guy to admit Kagami has half a brain, but the idea he pitched wasn't half-bad. Which takes Aomine to the present: on his day off, in his most flattering casual clothes (according to Satsuki), outside Himuro's apartment.  
  
Unlike all the other times, Himuro doesn't take ages to answer the door. Probably because he wasn't expecting anyone. Confusion shows on his face for one glorious, fleeting moment, and it isn't the unhappy kind.  
  
"Not that this isn't a pleasant surprise, Aomine-kun, but I don't recall ordering anything tonight."  
  
"Uh," says Aomine, eloquently. He gives it another try, leveling Himuro with a once-over of his own, adding that bit of husk to his voice he knows drives girls wild, even if the rest of him inevitably puts them off, "this one's on the house."  
  
It sounds dumb as hell to his own ears, and he's convinced he blew it, but then Himuro's whole demeanor changes, from the soft part of his mouth to the flush that unfurls down his chest like a golden brown finish on previously pale dough.  
  
Did that actually fucking work?  
  
"Is that so," murmurs Himuro, and he doesn't invite Aomine inside as much as he leaves the door open for him, probably for plausible deniability or whatever. All this, and he's still playing hard to get.  
  
Fortunately for both of them, Aomine can never resist a challenge.  
  
"What's with the—" He trails off, gesturing at Himuro's getup: slacks, and an unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt. What he means to ask, specifically, is _how come you're not naked?_ and Himuro seems to hear the question for what it is.  
  
"Had a presentation today. I can't very well go up in front of the class in my underwear, can I?"  
  
"Like that'd stop you," mutters Aomine, not that he's unappreciative of the way the slacks sculpt along the muscle of Himuro's thighs, or the way the open shirt teases skin that could so easily be unveiled...  
  
"What was that, Aomine-kun?"  
  
"You know what, I never said you could call me th—"  
  
"Daiki, then."  
  
Aomine can't help it; he honest to god groans. And Himuro, the asshole, starts laughing, tickled pink by Aomine's misery it seems like. He laughs into the kiss Aomine pulls him into, and laughs through the gasp he emits when Aomine pushes him to the couch.  
  
"You're a tease," whispers Aomine right into his ear, his complaints mild as Himuro shudders underneath him.  
  
"Well, if it works," replies Himuro, which prompts Aomine to bite at his earlobe, and then he isn't laughing anymore.

 

* * *

 

On Aomine's next visit, Himuro doesn't quite attend to the door in his usual aspiring nudist fashion — he's got a slim-fit black shirt on, the cling of it to his arms and waist so irresistible that Aomine doesn't hesitate in tearing it off.  
  
It's that same shirt he accidentally picks up from Himuro's bedroom floor the following morning instead of his own, only realizing his mistake once it's already worn.  
  
"You mind?" he asks Himuro, who's reclined on his bed as light filtered in through the blinds like an old timey-painting. He looks at the shirt with the kind of smile Aomine would love to decipher on any other day, but right now he doesn't have the brain capacity nor the time.  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"You're great," says Aomine, unabashed in that post-coital way, and it lingers when he walks into work later, evident in a grin so wide it made his cheeks hurt.  
  
"Someone got laid—" begins Kagami upon seeing him, though he stops mid-sentence for some reason and Aomine doesn't wait for him to finish.  
  
"Took your advice, and guess what?" Aomine makes a shooting motion with one hand, imitating the whoosh of the net with a low whistle. "Slam. Dunk."  
  
Kagami's face blanches. It's not the reaction Aomine was expecting.  
  
"You..." says Kagami, starting off slow and measured, for all the good it does when the rest of his words ram into each other in a highway collision when they leave his mouth. "Youfuckedmybrother."  
  
"I— what?!"  
  
"You fucked my brother!"  
  
"You have a brother?!"  
  
"That's his shirt!" points Kagami accusingly. "That's Tatsuya's 'ANAL' shirt!"  
  
Aomine glances down at the four big, bold letters printed across his chest. He guessed it was a random English word and left it at that, having paid more attention to how it hugged Himuro's slender figure like a— "Wait, Tatsuya? You mean Himuro?"  
  
Any doubts Kagami must've had are immediately squashed by that, because his expression flips a switch from mortified to murderous.  
  
"For the record, if I die here," says Aomine, his smirk the textbook definition of mischief as Kagami advances on him, "that ass was worth it."

 

* * *

 

Contrary to restaurant staff speculation, Aomine didn't file for sick days after succumbing to Kagami-related injuries. He genuinely caught a strain of the flu, not that anyone believes him when he goes back to work.  
  
His palpable relief upon finding out Kagami hasn't clocked in yet aside, everything seems to have returned to normal. Everyone orders the normal pepperoni crap and Aomine winds in and out of the normal mind-numbing routes — until breakfast Hawaiian pops up again on the order list, tailored to a certain weirdo's specific tastes.  
  
("There's gotta be a story behind this," Aomine had asked once, fingers sifting through Himuro's godlessly silky hair. "Egg and pineapples? Really?"  
  
Himuro shrugs, or attempts it, his cheek pillowed on Aomine's chest. "It reminds me of brunch. I love brunch."  
  
"Yeah? How come?" prods Aomine, after which the shape of Himuro's smirk presses into his skin.  
  
"Brunch is what you go to when having too much morning sex makes you late for breakfast.")  
  
And so Aomine takes the familiar pizza to a familiar doorstep, but the sight that greets him when the door opens after an oddly short wait is not so familiar.  
  
"Hey, Daiki." The only thing stranger than the baggy sweats and unflatteringly large shirt Himuro's drowning in is the tentative, almost sheepish smile on his lips. "Heard you took a sick leave."  
  
"Yeah. Sorry for not calling... who'd you hear that from?"  
  
"Um," says Himuro, which is a bad omen if Aomine's ever heard one. "They sent Taiga to deliver to me when you weren't around."  
  
It takes Aomine a moment, then two, to realize the implications of the statement. He checks the hallway for eavesdroppers before stepping inside, setting the pizza box down on the coffee table so he can take Himuro's hands in his own.  
  
There's just one thing he has to know.  
  
"What were you wearing?"  
  
Himuro, at least, has the decency to seem embarrassed. "Silk bathrobe."  
  
The two of them pause, staring into each other’s eyes as they cement the imagery (or in Himuro’s case, the memory) in their minds. Himuro, having anticipated it, catches Aomine in his arms as they both double over from laughter. And Aomine? Well, he can’t help it:  
  
He falls in love on the spot.


End file.
